


All We Are

by stephanericher



Series: 31 Days of Horoscopes [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-09-17 04:40:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9304682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: 1/12: You might discover a hidden talent for writing, or if you already know this, you may find that your skill is greater than you suspected. You might have to execute some paperwork regarding money, Aquarius, but you will get this done quickly and efficiently. At some point during the day you're likely to get a little frazzled, but this will pass. Get your work done and then relax.





	

**Author's Note:**

> so this 31-day challenge is based on the wonderful [31-Day Horoscope Challenge by @icandrawamoth](http://archiveofourown.org/series/621022). Simply: read your horoscope for the day from horoscope.com (Aquarius for me); use it as a writing prompt. Also, I'm using the text of the horoscope itself for summary because I'm lazy........It's also day 5 (king/advisor) for alforan week!

They're what seems like a few ticks into the day, Coran still on his first cup of tea and scrolling through messages on his tablet, when a message pops up on the screen that the finance minister is going on early paternity leave. The budget files are all there; they just aren't complete yet and considering the latest projection's due at the end of the day. Coran puts down his tea and frowns at the screen.

"What is it?" says Alfor.

He's still here, gathering himself together, artfully arranging the cape so it falls just so over his shoulders (it wouldn't matter if it didn't; Alfor has that regal quality instilled from birth, with since farther back than Coran can even remember, the posture and expression and quality about him that would make him look like a proper king in rags, not that Coran would ever say it because Alfor would take that at face value and keep his shirt untucked and after all the lengths Coran has gone to get him to wear it properly he's not going to let that happen).

"The finance minister's baby is coming early, so he's taking today off."

"Do we have congratulations arranged?"

"I've put in an order for a miniature fruit tree, but I'll have to push it up."

"Would you?" says Alfor. "Get them a card, too. I want to sign it."

"Of course," says Coran, already typing out instructions to that effect on the growing to-do list.

Alfor turns to leave.

"Sire, your cape."

"Oh?" says Alfor, and he's done this on purpose (he's not even trying to hide it).

Coran tries to pull his strictest scowl, but he so rarely can with Alfor and he can feel his face twisting as if mocking his own mind. He reaches up to smooth the cape over Alfor's shoulders and tuck it back at the collar, perfectly fit for presentation.

"How is it?"

He can see the movement of Alfor's throat, the gradual spread of his smile.

"Adequate."

He pulls on his mustache to preoccupy himself; even this early in the morning he is not going to shamelessly watch Alfor leave the room.

* * *

The deputy finance minister is off today and won’t be back until tomorrow, so it falls on Coran to finish the projections. He’s been involved throughout the process, and it’s a simple matter of running the numbers and digging through the archives, but there’s still nearly a full day’s work left to do, plus all of the usual duties. He’s pushed up the tree delivery and ordered a card from the calligraphers, straight to Alfor’s desk. He’s also sent a reply to the financier’s message, congratulating him and his wife and asking to keep him in the loop.

He runs the check against the computers while checking the historical records; there’s thankfully nothing glaringly relevant that the finance minister doesn’t have already, which is especially nice now that everyone else is starting to come into the palace and send all their paperwork Coran’s way. Access codes, permissions forms, reports from lower offices, all come in a maelstrom of notification noises and it’s then the computer announces it’s done with the check. Technically, he can delegate some of this reporting, and he’s going to have to, if only to check it over at the end. But there has to be some junior minister somewhere who’s reliable enough to take care of it.

* * *

Coran doesn’t usually take lunch; he eats at his desk and if someone else is there he complains about not having time to cook for himself. But today is different; today he’s found the junior assistant to someone-or-other, looking for something to do and reasonably good with presentations, but said junior assistant is currently in the company of one Princess Allura, who drags him off to lunch.

“It’s not good to eat at your desk,” she says (she, of less than two hundred years). “This is a royal order, Coran.”

He supposes as orders go, this isn’t the worst, especially since Alfor is there. Coran opens his mouth to begin the latest briefing when Alfor holds up his hand.

“Coran. No work at lunch.”

As little work as possible in front of Allura, as it’s always been and how it should be. Their own childhood together is clear in Coran’s mind, the queen chiding Alfor to mind his royal duty as her successor, Coran taking responsibility for their misdeeds and pulling both of them back close enough to the line, the stress weighing down on Alfor’s shoulders as the heir. Allura knows her role and duty, of course; she has remarkable poise and manners and she’s learning how to lead. But she is also still a child, and she has had as real of a childhood as her parents could have given her.

“Right,” says Coran, coughing into his hand. “Princess, how was your fencing lesson?”

She launches into a rapid-fire dissertation on sword types that Coran can hardly keep up with; he asks her questions at first but soon it spirals out of his realm of knowledge and he’s content to just listen, to watch her father listen to her. His smile is soft; his eyes shine like twin moons. Coran has to jerk his face away to wade his way back into the conversation, and even then he’s quite sure his face is flushed (perhaps it’s time for him to grow a full beard, just in case).

* * *

The budget projections are finally done, the reports signed off and passed around. Alfor skims through them on his tablet while Coran finishes his last few reports. Alfor should be in bed already, should be done with the report, should be—not here, not waiting for Coran, which it would be foolish to presume, but Coran has known Alfor all his life. He doesn’t have to presume. He just knows.

“Coran.”

“Yes, Sire?”

Alfor huffs, in that particular don’t-use-titles-please-Coran way he does, turning his face toward the window. The moon is out tonight, half-full and piercing through the thin clouds. It’s late, but they are still stuck to their roles. Coran signs off one form, then another. It’s not as if either of them is ever off the clock, but there are times when they do pretend to forget that.

The rest can wait until tomorrow, if he gets up early. He’ll have to anyway, to give a knowledge transfer to the deputy finance minister whenever she gets in. Coran turns off the tablet, placing it face down on the table. That’s what gets Alfor to smile, the clack of the tablet’s glass screen against the wooden surface of the desk and Coran’s fingers free in midair, until not a tick later Alfor clasps them in his.

“Shall we?”

“Of course.”

Even if they are, still and always, king and advisor, once in a while they can afford to be themselves, too. And as Alfor leads them from the study, that is exactly what they are.


End file.
